Forget (35 page)

“She’s pregnant
and
in love with her husband’s best friend?” He questions with an amped-up edge to his voice. “I’m on the first fucking page of the book!”

“See what I mean?”

“Is Sophia having an affair with Philippe?” Dylan stares at me with a familiar expression on his face. It’s the same baited-and-hooked expression I had the first time I read those words.

“Once you finish, you’ll view the whole idea of a love triangle in a completely different light. Sometimes there’s more to the story. Sometimes everything isn’t really as it seems.” I clear my throat, stunned by my words and their possible subliminal meaning.

Am I still talking about the book? Or have I headed towards more personal territory? Maybe
Memories of Suffocation
hits a little (more like a lot) closer to home than I’m letting myself realize.

“There’s just so much more to this book than what is going on between Sophia and Philippe. There’s more to it than her betrayal.” I reveal anything else, refusing to spoil his first-time reading experience.

He continues to stare at me, speechless, and silently begging for more details.

I nudge his shoulder, stifling a laugh.

His wordless expression is beyond adorable.

Shaking my head, I add, “You’re going to have to find out for yourself.”

Frustrated, he tosses the book off to the side.
“Brooke,”
he growls into my ear.
“
I’m going to read it no matter what, just tell me what happens.”

“No spoilers.” I sit my overused copy back into his hands. “I have faith in you, Bright Eyes.”

THE SECOND SHE WALKS
out of the bathroom, I regret the decision to let her stop at the hotel to change into something more comfortable. It’s the least amount of clothing I’ve ever seen her wear in public. I have the urge to tie her ass to the bed. Caveman instincts kicking in, I grip her shoulders and turn her back towards the bathroom. “I don’t think so, Little Wing. That’s not happenin’.”

I’m two seconds away from texting Ari and rescheduling. It has nothing to do with the mind-fuck of a book she’s got me reading, and everything to do with the minuscule outfit she’s wearing. Tiny black shorts show off her bloody gorgeous legs and a miniscule half-shirt finishes the attire, showcasing sun-kissed skin. It reads “Love is the drug” across her chest.

And she calls me the hipster . . .

“What?” she asks, turning right back around and clearly confused.

“You’re practically starkers!” I pull the hem of her shirt down, trying to make it longer. It doesn’t work. “This isn’t even a shirt. I can see your sexy little hips.” I trail my fingers up her waist to the underside of her bare breasts. My hands slip underneath the joke of a shirt, rubbing my thumbs across her hardened nipples. “No way in hell am I letting you out of here like this. Every random twat we pass will get a glimpse of the underside of your perfect tits. Find something else.” Brooke doesn’t have huge breasts, but they’re about as perfect as tits can get—soft, perky, and just the right size for my mouth and hands.

“Dylan,” she sighs, hands on hips, sassiness on full display. “I’m getting my tattoo on my ribs. I can’t wear a bra. Anyway, this will be more comfortable once it’s done.”

I run a frustrated hand through my hair. Behind that cool and reserved exterior, the woman is really just a tease at heart. “You’re hell-bent on making me crazy, yeah?”

She stands on her tiptoes, kissing my jaw. “Come on, caveman. Let’s get out of here before you take your dick out and start pissing on my leg.”

We barely make it out of her hotel room without me fucking her against the wall.

Surprisingly, we’re only fifteen minutes late for our appointment at Bleu Noir. I’ve put Brooke in good hands. A born and raised Londoner like me, Ari has been a close friend since I was a teenager, and has done all of my ink. He’s a good guy and a bloody genius when it comes to designing and creating tattoos. He can take any idea and turn it into something beyond your wildest dreams.

After she tells him the reason behind her tattoo, he quickly gets to work. She lies down on her right side; shirt pulled up to expose the left side of her rib cage and gorgeous skin on full display. I swallow the urge to cover her up.

Sliding a chair close to Brooke’s head, I clutch her tiny hands in mine and place comforting kisses to her cheeks, lips, and forehead, to help ease the sting from the needle.

In less than an hour, Ari wipes the smeared ink from her skin, and encourages Brooke to check out her new tat in the mirror. The look on her face when she sees her reflection has my chest tightening. Visibly in love with it, she stares at the inscription
“Je Ne Regrette Rien”
for a good five minutes.

While Brooke walks outside to give Lindsay a play-by-play of her new tattoo, I lie down on the table, stretching out onto my stomach. Ari gathers fresh supplies and readies his table to put a few hours of work in on my right sleeve.

“Frankie Lancaster,” he says, pressing the needle to my skin.

“No idea what you’re talking about,” I answer. It’s a lie, I know exactly who he’s talking about. The name alone makes my fists clench.

“You’re so full of shit, Bissette. I’m not the fucking police, mate. Just tell me what set you off about some wannabe metal head.”

I rarely lose my temper, hardly ever find myself in situations where I choose fists over words, but that bastard deserved every piece of rage I gave him. “Frankie Lancaster can blow me.”

“Poetic, mate, really.” Ari laughs, digging the needle into my skin. “This reminds me of the Andre Guillard incident.”

“Hmmm . . . doesn’t ring a bell.” I feign innocence.

“You’re an ass,” he says. “I remember when you rearranged Andre’s face because of what he tried to do to your brother. We both know you’re the one who bashed Frankie’s nose in. Apparently, you kneed him in the balls so hard, he stayed MIA for four days, licking his wounds and icing his pecker.”

“Four days?” I ask, sounding far too cheerful about it.

“Yeah, four fucking days. You’re a savage wanker when that temper of yours joins the party. Somehow, his buddies talked him out of pressing charges. How the hell did you manage that?”

“Okay, I’ll take your bait you prying fucker,” I say through gritted teeth. A word to the wise, the underside of your arm isn’t the most pleasant place to get ink. “Theoretically, if I were to do something like that, I could see the appeal of beating up some wannabe metal head for fucking with my best mate. Just for fun, let’s imagine a guy like Frankie sent my buddy Zach filthy pictures of his dick inside Zach’s girlfriend’s mouth. Theoretically, if something like that happened, I could see someone like me getting a little pissed about it. Possibly taking the time to have a face-to-face with him, and maybe, even letting him know we don’t tolerate shit like that.

“Zach know about it?”

“You mean hypothetical Zach?”

Ari snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, does
hypothetical
Zach know?”

“No.” Zach didn’t need to know I beat the shit out of Frankie four days after he received those disgusting texts. I felt like seeing the woman you’d been in love with since you were fifteen, with another bloke’s cock stuffed in her mouth, was enough. My rage, and inability to control my temper when assholes fuck with my friends, didn’t need to be added to his list.

“You’re lucky he didn’t press charges.”

“Yeah, I guess. But you know what? In hindsight, if he had pressed charges, I still would have done it.”

“If you weren’t normally such a mellow guy, I’d encourage you to seek anger management.”

I grin. “It’s all rainbows and fucking unicorns until someone screws with people I care about.”

He switches ink, blue now resting at the tip of the needle. “Mandi came by the other day for a tat.”

“Good for Mandi.”

He wipes my arm with a cool rag, and then, resumes torturing my skin. “She seemed pretty intent on getting details of what you’ve been up to. I guess a few of her friends caught sight of you and Brooke at Pop In a few weeks back.”

“Considering, she started sending random texts and phone calls shortly after that, can’t say I’m too surprised.”

“Women, mate, always wantin’ what they can’t have, and not wantin’ what they can have.”

“Not all women. Just women like her.” Mandi had been a diverting pastime a few months back. Our bands played a few shows together at a music festival in Montmartre. She’s attractive, great body, decent voice, but like I said, a diverting pastime. Mandi doesn’t hold a candle to Brooke. In my eyes, no one compares to Little Wing.

“So Brooke is American, yeah?”

I nod.

“What’s the story behind you two?”

“She’s here on holiday. Due to head back to L.A. in a few days.”

“Looks a little serious for her to be heading home so soon.”

I shut my eyes. “It is serious.”

“She’s caught your heart, young lover?”

“Piss off,” I retort, chuckling. “I just really like her.” Honestly, it’s a hell of a lot more than that. I had far passed the ‘like’ end of the spectrum when she bared her soul to me after we’d had sex in my flat. Christ, I think I was passed ‘like’ the second she played on stage with me at Pop In.

Her honey eyes were a sucker punch to my gut. Every time they merely glanced in my direction, they took me by surprise. Christ,
she
took me by surprise. I didn’t know someone like her existed. She makes me feel off kilter, completely out of sync with reality. Her eyes, her blush, and the small freckle underneath her right eye prove their fucking point. They draw me in, stirring this incessant urge to fixate on all of the little things that make her Brooke. Maybe I’m a masochist? Or maybe I’m out of my mind?

Or maybe I’m in love with her?

I try to tell myself I don’t know, but I fucking know. I’ve already fallen. I know she could break me, but I don’t care. I’d rather her stomp all over my heart than never touch it in the first place.

“You gonna give the long distance thing a shot?” Ari asks.

“If it’s up to me, yes, but she’s still skirting around the whole topic. Every time I bring it up, she’s distracting me with her tits.”

“So you want more and she just wants to shag your brains out?”

Sighing heavily, I say, “I don’t know what the fuck she’s thinking.”

Ari laughs, visibly enjoying my dilemma. “Damn, I never thought I’d see the day that Dylan Bissette gets strung along by a woman. I think I might be in love with this girl and I barely know her.”

Yeah, join the fucking club.

A few hours later, I’m bandaged up, and getting ready to shrug my t-shirt back on.

“I’m gonna blast some metal and take a smoke break. Meet me out front when you’re done,” Ari tosses over his shoulder. He walks out of the back room, giving us some privacy.

Brooke’s hip rests against the table, her eyes raking over my bared chest. I glance down. Her bite mark is still evident—healed over, but bruised. I love that it’s there. I love the fact that I’m the one who got her to become so wild and savage in her release.

“That look will get you fucked on a tattoo table, love.”

“What look?” she asks, but the heat in her eyes doesn’t dissolve.

“
That
look. The one that says you’re starved and the only thing that’ll satisfy you is my cock.”

And still, she keeps looking.

“I warned you,” I growl, striding towards her. I press my body against hers. Brooke’s ass bumps the table. My lips move against her sweet mouth, pulling a deep moan from her throat. “Turn around, and lean forward on your elbows,” I command, twisting her hips sideways.

“Dylan!” she squeaks, trying to sound stern, but doesn’t.

“You can’t say I didn’t warn you. I damn near fucked you against the wall in your hotel room.” Her shorts hit the ground. “And I warned you to wipe that sexy look off your face, not once, but twice. You didn’t. I’m hard as a motherfucker, and right now, I need to slide my cock inside of you more than I need my next breath.”

“Ari is going to know what we’re doing back here,” she says, but it’s breathless and lacks any concern. She’s too distracted by my fingers sliding inside her wet cunt.